My Final Gift Was My Life Chapter 1

My soul floated, light as a dandelion seed, looking down at the girl collapsed on the cold, linoleum floor.

Mom, I’m sorry. I really wasn't lying this time. I just couldn't hold on anymore.

Despite knowing I suffered from severe chronic anemia, my mother had insisted I participate in the university’s campus-wide blood drive. She didn't want the "optics" of her own daughter sitting out while she, the Dean of Students, presided over the event. She called it "leading by example."

At the 100-milliliter mark, the world began to tilt. My vision went grainy, like an old television losing its signal. My heart hammered against my ribs, a frantic bird trying to escape a cage.

I reached out, my fingers trembling as I tried to steady the tube, trying to tell the nurse I needed to stop. But she just clamped her hand over my wrist, pinning me down.

Stacy, the phlebotomist, shot me a look of pure, unadulterated annoyance. She looked at my ghost-white face and scoffed. "Only a hundred mils and you’re already trying to tap out? Everyone else is doing the full four hundred. Don't be a drama queen."

She leaned in closer, her voice a sharp whisper. "This is a charity drive, honey. Trying to fake a faint to get out of it is just selfish. Honestly, people like you should be forced to give double just for the attitude."

My mother stood a few feet away, her arms crossed, her eyes like chips of flint. She didn't offer a hand or a kind word. She just looked disappointed.

"Zoey, is this how I raised you?" she asked, her voice echoing in the sterile room. "Everyone else is doing their part. You don't get to be the exception just because you’re mine."

Then came the words that felt like a death sentence: "You stay in that chair until you hit four hundred, Zoey. Even if it kills you, you are finishing what you started."

I gasped for air, but my lungs felt like they were filled with cotton. When the third bag began to fill, the light finally went out. My body felt heavy, like lead, and I felt myself slip away as I hit the floor.

* * *

A suffocating darkness grabbed me, and then—nothing. My physical body slumped over the donation table, the sudden movement jerking the needle. Blood began to backflow into the tube, a dark, rhythmic pulse.

Stacy shoved my shoulder, her patience clearly gone. She ripped the needle out with a sharp, careless tug.

"I’m trying to work here! Can you stop moving for five seconds? Now I have to re-stick you."

When I didn't answer, she let out a huff of disgust. She grabbed my arm and drove the needle back in, hard.

"Oops. Missed the vein. You won't mind, right?"

She did it again. And again. She dug the needle in with a sickening deliberate-ness until my inner elbow was a mess of bruised, purple skin. But I couldn't feel the sting anymore.

"Fine, play the silent treatment," Stacy muttered, swapping the bags without looking up. "Zero school spirit. Everyone else is doing their part, and you’re here acting like it’s a Greek tragedy. It’s just blood, Zoey. You’re so entitled."

She glanced toward my mother. "I don't know how Dean Mercer ended up with such a spineless, selfish daughter."

The students in line behind me started to whisper.

"I heard she’s actually sick, like, really anemic," one girl murmured. "What if she’s actually hurt?"

"Please," another boy replied, rolling his eyes. "The nurse said she’s faking. And look at Dean Mercer. She’s totally calm. If something was actually wrong, her own mom wouldn't just be standing there, right?"

I hovered above them, desperate, looking at my mother. Her brow was furrowed, her lips thinned into a line of pure resentment.

"Zoey! Get up this instant! You’re making a scene in front of the entire department!"

I didn't move. I couldn't.

Stacy paused, her hand resting on my limp arm. She looked up at my mother and sighed. "Dean, she’s really committed to this act. Should I even bother continuing? She only hit the hundred-mark. Everyone else did the full draw, but she’s just... being difficult."

Stacy leaned in as if sharing a secret. "Actually, she just threatened me. She told me that because she’s the Dean’s daughter, I should just credit her for a full bag and let her go, or she’d have me fired. Maybe we should just let her go before she causes more trouble."

I tried to scream, to tell the truth, but I had no voice.

My mother’s face darkened. A flash of pure rage crossed her features. She walked over and kicked me—hard—right in the small of my back.

Because my body was already a dead weight, the force sent me sliding off the chair and onto the floor.

"You are a disgrace," she hissed. "When did you become so manipulative? I honestly don't know who you are anymore."